


Fighting's Better, Fucking's Best

by bog_witch



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bog_witch/pseuds/bog_witch
Summary: “I’ve changed my mind,” Tormund says. “I do want to suck your cock.”





	Fighting's Better, Fucking's Best

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to write it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” the wildling – Tormund – says. “I do want to suck your cock.”

They’ve been at Eastwatch two days, waiting for the White Walkers to descend on the wall while Jon Snow is probably fucking the Mother of Dragons on the way back to Dragonstone. They didn’t put Sandor in a cell this time; instead, he’s got a room to himself, with a fireplace and a bed big enough for four. It’s not King’s Landing, but it’s the most comfortable he’s been in a while.

The company, on the other hand, he could do without.

“I thought you preferred pussy,” he mumbles into a cup of hot wine. He shouldn’t have left the door open; he only wanted to let the smoke out of the room.

“Aye,” Tormund says, “but my woman’s a long way away, and I owe you a favour.”

“She’s not your woman.” Tormund had said as much himself, and Sandor doubts Brienne of Tarth would want anyone claiming ownership of her. He has a grudging respect for the woman, even if she did leave him for dead on the side of the road. Few men could cut him down like that, and even fewer women. If Tormund gets his wish and the two of them do make giant babies together, Sandor hopes he lives long enough to fight one of them.

“Not yet,” Tormund agrees. “And once she is I’ll be too busy between her legs to have any time for you.”

Sandor snorts. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

“I don’t know if you’re interested. That’s why I’m asking.” He grins, his eyes wild. “So how about it?”

Sandor considers it. He’s never had much interest in men, but he’s a soldier; it’s not as if he’s never had a man suck him off before. Never one with a beard like Tormund’s, though. There’s no way he’ll be able to pretend that mouth belongs to a woman. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it might have, once.

He shrugs and finishes what’s left of his wine. “Might as well,” he says. “There’s fuck all else to do here.”

He’s barely out of his chair before Tormund’s hands are at the front of his breeches. The wildling grunts impatiently when the laces don’t immediately come undone. “Fucking southron clothes,” he grumbles. “Help me, Hound. I want to see if your cock is as big as the rest of you.”

That, of all things, makes Sandor’s dick start to harden. He unlaces his breeches, then his smallclothes, and pulls them down just far enough to expose his cock and nothing else. The shock of cold air is almost enough to kill his growing erection, but Tormund’s hand is impossibly warm around it – fucking wildlings – and it doesn’t take long before he’s fully hard.

It occurs to Sandor that he is going to enjoy this after all. It’s been a long fucking time since anyone touched his cock, and even longer since that person didn’t ask for gold afterwards. He’ll take his pleasure where he can get it.

“Not bad,” Tormund says, licking his lips. “I’ve seen bigger.”

“Sucked a lot of cocks, have you?”

Tormund winks before getting down on his knees. There’s a joke to be made there, he thinks – something about wildings and kneeling – but that thought vanishes when Tormund swallows his cock whole. Sandor has to lean a hand against the wall to steady himself. Tormund’s hand was good – a bit rough, but good – but his mouth is a fucking revelation, hot and slick and yielding. The mad bastard clearly knows his way around a cock, and he doesn’t fuck around. He doesn’t show off, doesn’t tease, doesn’t hesitate; just takes it, all at once. That’s probably how it’s done north of the Wall, where exposed appendages are likely to freeze solid if left to the open air.

“Fucking hell,” he manages, and he can feel Tormund laughing around his dick. He has that same wild look in his eyes as when they were fighting for their lives against an army of White Walkers. Sandor thrusts into his mouth, carefully – he wouldn’t put it past the wildling to bite his cock off if he gets angry – and Tormund’s pupils widen until his ice-blue eyes are nearly black.

“You like that?” He thrusts again, and Tormund moans, a low, throaty sound that Sandor feels deep in his bones. That’s all the permission he needs, and he starts fucking the wildling’s mouth, hands tangled in his greasy ginger hair. Sandor doesn’t hold back and Tormund doesn’t complain, just grips the base of his cock with one callused hand and swallows the rest of it, his throat opening for every thrust.

When he looks down, Tormund has his eyes closed and his free hand down his fur breeches. The sight makes Sandor’s eyes roll back and his balls tighten, and it only takes a few more thrusts before he’s coming down Tormund’s throat, heat rushing through his body like wildfire.

Tormund coughs and sputters when he pulls off, but he’s still got a hand in his breeches, so he can’t have minded too much. Because Sandor’s not a total cunt, he sinks to the floor – his knees are about to give out anyway – pulls Tormund’s cock out and jerks him hard and fast, the way he likes it himself. He keeps his hand fisted in Tormund’s hair because he likes the feel of it, and when he pulls on it, hard enough to hurt, Tormund comes with a roar that they can probably hear all the way at Castle Black.

They’re so close that he can feel Tormund’s breath on his face, and for a moment Sandor thinks he’s going to kiss him (it’s been so long since anyone kissed him) but he grins instead, claps him on the shoulder and sits back against the wall, chest heaving.

“I fucked a bear once,” he says, once he’s caught his breath enough to talk. “She wasn’t half as rough as you.”

Sandor can’t tell if that’s a joke or not, but he laughs anyway, laughs until there are tears in his eyes and the smoky air is making his lungs ache. “Mad bastard.” He gets on his feet and holds a hand out to Tormund. “Come on,” he says. “I need a fucking drink.”


End file.
